Stepping Stones
by TroublingAStar
Summary: So, yes, she gets left behind to tend the house a lot. And she's okay with that, really. Healing mages are best left at home anyway. Clearly, Roxas cannot be expected to know this. Roxith


"I just don't get you, Aerith."

The carelessness with which these words drop from his lips makes her cringe. She lifts her chin, just a bit, ignoring her cinnamon bangs as they fall into her eyes.

"What are you talking about?" she asks, trying to keep her voice soft. That's what she is, after all. Soft Aerith. Gentle Aerith. Sweet, sweet, _sweet_ Aerith. She's the girl who minds the home, who dusts off the tabletops, who keeps a hearty fire going for the heroes when they return back home from exterminating the Heartless. She's demure, quiet, doesn't say a word when they track in mud and blood, looking exhilarated. She doesn't say a word when their eyes sparkle with excitement and camaraderie. And she most certainly doesn't say a word when they claim they're too tired to tell the long, gory tale, which probably isn't suitable for her soft ears, anyway.

It makes her want to scream, sometimes.

"I mean," he says, and he hesitates. He's been wandering past her—_their—_house every day for weeks, as though patrolling for Heartless. One day when she was feeling particularly aggravated about her damsel-in-a-tower status she'd snapped at the indecipherable boy and told him to either come in for some hot cocoa or get out. It wasn't until later that she'd started to wonder what a sixteen-year-old—or seventeen? He acts so old for his age that it's hard to tell—boy was doing walking down the streets of Traverse Town with no form of protection on him. The fact that he was alone wasn't _so_ odd for the town of misplaced souls, but still struck a chord with her. She'd been tempted to set him up to live with the owner of the Traverse Town Hotel, an acquaintance of hers, but something about him kept her from doing so; instead, she'd given him an open invitation to come back. Which led to the lunches every so often. And the random bouquets of flowers. And this moment, with the two of them sitting on the banks of Merlin's secret island. Her shoes are off, sitting on the shore next to them, and though he is apparently too cool to dangle his feet in the water—actually, he's sitting with one leg bent on the ground and the other bent upwards, with an arm resting on his raised knee—he does occasionally lean over and let the still water cool his fingertips. His lovely, almost delicate, features are oddly peaceful.

"You mean?" she prompts, leaning over so that she can better see his face under the mess of spikes. His eyes reflect the dark azure of the pool.

"Why do you let them leave you behind?" he asks, so quietly that she might not have heard his words if they didn't echo in the cavern.

She tenses, not noticing her braid slip over her shoulder until it slaps the surface of the water. Some droplets from the small splash hit her dress, making her start just a bit as she leans back with a rueful smile.

"Maybe that's why," she laughs, trying to keep things lighthearted.

One side of his lips quirks, though he doesn't actually smile. She's used to it by now, though it used to bother her that he never fully smiles. It's still her secret ambition to tease a real one out of him one day.

"Really, though," he says, looking troubled now. "I don't get it."

The smile falls from her face, and she looks away, watching her hands twist in her lap. Her homegrown paleness makes her almost glow against the fabric in the dark cavern. "Someone needs to mind the home front, don't they?" she answers finally, working to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "Besides, no one can work cure spells like I can. It's pragmatic to keep me here, so that I can tend to their wounds later. Going out and getting myself wounded does nothing to help."

"You can fight," he insists, sticking out his bottom lip just a little, which makes her smile. Sometimes, she wonders if he isn't _younger_ than sixteen.

"Yes," she says patiently, "but getting hurt happens to everyone sooner or later. Even the best warriors do."

"That's true," he concedes, nodding a little to himself. The action is doubled by his reflection. "Doesn't it ever bother you, though?" he asks, suddenly, looking up at her.

She can't help but think that it's a bit unfair of him to unleash the effect of his big, blue eyes on her like that. She looks away when she answers him.

"Sometimes," she says lightly.

"Oh," he says, very softly.

They sit in silence for a few more moments, before she remembers herself, and that the light in Merlin's cavern is always scant, despite the time of day. She stands abruptly, grabbing her shoes with one hand and holding out a hand to help him up with the other. It seems that he's surprised, because it takes him a moment to grasp her hand. Just the same, he doesn't let her hold his weight, instead using his other hand to help himself up. She's surprised by how rough and calloused his hand is—shouldn't a child his age be in school? Or some form of higher education? Though it's probably beside the point—shouldn't _she_ be in higher education?

She smiles at him before she turns to leap to the first moving rock. She gets to the other side first, being more practiced than he, so she sits on the other shore and offers advice as he attempts to navigate. He moves with a certain grace and fluidity that would look strange on another his age, which also surprises her. He looks almost feline, deftly leaping from rock to rock with a practiced ease that makes her wonder about his life before Traverse Town. What kind of training did he receive, wherever he's from? Who _is_ he, really? Her musings are interrupted when, finally, without falling off of a single stone, he reaches the other bank and gives her the familiar half-smile again.

"Did you expect me to take longer?" he asks, standing over her.

Her lips quirk. "Maybe."

He rolls his eyes as she stands up. Flipping her braid back over her shoulder, she offers him a smile before walking through the faux rock of the cavern's most direct entrance and exit. Maybe it's a trick of the light, but she thinks she sees him smile back; if she had blinked, she would have missed it, so quick was it gone and replaced by a more standard apathetic look. Her smile grows, and she looks away before he can see.

It's a small victory, but she'll take it, for now.

* * *

Hee. YES IT IS A ROXITH. IT'S ALL MAHOU'S FAULT, I TELL YOU. SHE'S THE ONE WHO GOT ME ONTO THIS PAIRING. IS IT MY FAULT IT'S CUTE?

Heh, but no, much props to Mahou for being an awesome beta and getting me onto this cracky, yet wonderfully endearing, pairing.

Nothing belongs to me!


End file.
